Wrapped In Satin
by DivergentDanceFreak
Summary: Jane-Lynette Abel is a dress-maker's daughter; factories are all she knows. But at the age of 17, she and a mysterious boy are sentenced to fight to the death yet they spare each other in the arena. They look the other way every time. What starts the two tributes' (unintentional) respect for each other? Nothing but the slash of a blade, the spilling of blood, & a few shared looks.
1. Chapter 1

Pebbles crunch beneath my feet with each step I take, the gravel grinding against the ground. I am trudging up a hill on my way to get to work. The click of my shoes against the ground echoes and it feels like a reminder.

_Your fate hangs in a little box, _it says, _a box with hundreds of little slips of paper._ The sound my shoes make as they hit the gravelly ground tells me,_ in two days one of those slips will be taken out; In two days you will die_. It reminds me that in only forty-eight hours from now, the reaping will take place in the center of the District.

Two days, I think, can end up feeling like a lifetime. Just two little days.

_Click._ Two.

_Click._ Two.

_Click._ Two.

That number surrounds me, filling my brain. Two, two, two. Everywhere I look, I am reminded of it and I need to make sure I don't trip over my own feet. All I have to do is: Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm, and: Don't think, don't think, don't think. I have not done either of those yet. A deep breath and I look around the road I'm on- if you can really call it that. The ground is uneven and cold. The pavement is cracked, although I'm sure it was beautiful and smooth and perfect at one point, just like everything else. Everything is breaking down. But I spend too much time worrying about all the bad things, when there is so much good in the world if you just look for it and know how to look. Sometimes it's closer than you think; Sometimes it's right under your nose.

Whenever it rains, all the smoke and fog of the factories is washed away and leaves the earth smelling fresh and clean, even if the District never really is.

There is a little bakery on the corner of this street and the smell of freshly baked bread wafts up the hill to me, warm and inviting. I wave to the baker- an old, kindly man- through the window and he smiles in return.

People meander around the district, going to work, to school, just like any other normal day. Neighbors call good morning's to each other and goodbye's to their family as they set out for the day.

A woman jiggles a key into a door and as she opens it, the welcoming bell of her shop chimes, loud and sweet and smiles at me as she looks up. She sells dresses. They are very beautiful, with vibrant blues and greens and pinks and reds and yellows and white and black and silver and gold and rich, deep, eye-catching purples. I smile back. The shops are _all_ opening now. The small confectionery that sells little spheres of pure sugar and dyes, the bakery, the apothecary. Everything on this side of town is colorful and animated, and if this is what they call "drab," I can only imagine the dynamics of the Capitol.

I laugh everyday. I smile, I dance, I sing. I run.

I have friends and a mother and a home.

I am alive.

I chuckle to myself as I watch the sun rise behind the clouds. Creamy pinks and oranges and blues smear themselves across the sky like paint on a canvas, streaky and thick and glowing, and as I walk my mind wanders back to the day, just a few weeks ago, when the twist to the Games for the Quarter Quell would be announced.

* * *

_Random limbs press up against me and I want to cringe away or push them off me, but I hold my ground. After all, it's not like these people have fatal, contagious diseases... however much the peacekeepers argue otherwise; District 8 and the peacekeepers- let's just say we have an ongoing love-hate relationship and leave it at that._

_We love to hate each other._

_A girl whips around, most likely looking for friends. (We're all new to this whole Quarter Quell thing...) Her hair smacks my face and gets caught in my mouth, causing me to gag as she begins to walk away, oblivious. I stick my tongue out and scrape at it. Now that's just gross. If she's from the poorer part of town, who knows when the last time she bathed was?_

_Frowning, I too search for my friends, along with all the other twelve, thirteen... fourteen, fifteen, sixteen... seventeen... eighteen year old children who are unfortunately subject to brutally and cold-heartedly committed homicide._

_It is sad because I have heard that people once did this for fun. Real, normal people, back when the Capitol didn't exist. But, their version of the Hunger Games wasn't real. Not really. It was... a game. I don't understand it! They would use controllers and hook them up to their televisions. The kids would choose characters and then make each of them fight to the death- like we do in the Games. Each character had different skills, could do different things, and each character had weaknesses. Each character the kids would choose to fight would have a certain amount of damage done to them and if they did something wrong in the game, or the character was too beat-up, they would die. Just like our tributes. Only, in those games, the characters would have multiple lives. In those games, they were only the characters who died. In those games, the real children got to survive. And the winner would go to bed happy with themselves. And the losers would forget their loss within minutes. Maybe a few mean names were thrown around, but no damage was ever done._

_They were making fun of our real lives. __And no one should ever take death lightly._

_I despise whoever invented those morbid games that amused hundreds of children, years and years ago. Because he was naïve._

_It saddens me. There really is no hope for humanity, is there? __Just then someone elbows me in the side and another person steps on my foot, as if to prove my point._

_So much for personal space. Whatever happened to that thing we used to call a "space bubble?" I shake my head. It's only been about a minute since I've gotten here and this year already seems to be much less organized than usual. Everyone crowds into the center of the district to see President Snow on the great, shiny screen above our heads take the yellow envelope out of the old box that holds the instructions for all of the Quarter Quells that ever will be, unfold it, and read out what this year's Games will be like. We all want to know what the instructions will be, and it is really, very crowded and confined in the square, everything closing in on us. Though we __are outside, the air is stagnant and stale._

_A boy with thick, deep brown hair shoves his hand in the air to get someone's attention and motions them over. Whoever it is must not be moving in his direction because he raises his eyebrows as if to say "What's the hold-up?" After a moment his chest heaves and I guess he sighed. Well, I'd like to help him, but... I don't know him and it would be weird if some random girl did that- right? I press my lips in a hard line and turn away to find _my _friends._

_I am too shy._

_I am in serious need of some guts._

_My arms are wrapped around my middle protectively when a yell louder than all the rest cuts into my reverie: "Jalyn! Hey!"_

_At the sound of my name, my head whips around to locate the owner of the voice and my eyes scan the bobbing heads of red, yellow, brown, black. They skip over unfamiliar faces, and then... they find the boy from before, his shaggy hair flopping over his face. For a second all I do is stare at him. Then I blink._

_"Oh! Caine! Hi!" I laugh a little self consciously and smile apologetically. Caine is my best friend; how did I not recognize him?_

_He grins and pats me on the back a couple of times. "You were lookin' pretty lost over there. Eyes glazed over, and _everything_. So, being the nice friend I am I decided to help you out." He chuckles and puffs out his chest. "Oh Jalyn, what would you ever do without me?"_

_I laugh at his arrogance, but I also wish I could be as confident as he. He leads me over to an area off to the right with slightly more space._

_"You know, I really have no clue," I say, scoffing._

_He puts a hand on my shoulder and casually leans on me._

_"See? What did I tell you?" Caine's the kind of guy who brushes everything off and takes every word out of your mouth as a compliment. I smile at him._

_He stops dragging me as we reach a little redheaded girl named Mary. She's petite, polite and pretty. The perfect girl. Caine knows her better than I do, but as long as he likes her, I do, too. Besides, no one in their right mind_ wouldn't_ like Mary. She smiles slightly, softly, and raises a hand as a "hello."_

_Just then the President's voice booms out of the speakers over all of us, cutting our conversation short, and I can't help but think that they cranked up the volume a bit much. Maybe they think it creates a "mood" or something. As if we need added volume to make it ominous or mysterious or whatever it is they're going for; we can freak ourselves out enough_ without_ their help._

_I keep having these annoying anxiety attacks because it's another year and another reaping and another Game with another twist with another set of tributes with another set of attributes._

_I'm jumpy._

_Shaking out my hands- which are sore from all the wringing- I tune in to the President to see if he is announcing our instructions for this year. I really should have been listening before, but who could? I catch him in the middle of a sentence:_

_"...to remind the districts of their defeat to the Capitol-" Never mind... I can tune out that guilt trip. They give us the same speech every year to keep us from rebelling like that thirteenth district did. Sometimes I wonder if they just made that up to scare us all. 'Cause it kind of works._

_For me, at least._

_I nudge Mary with my shoulder._

_"Pssst. Mary." I try to be quiet so the peacekeepers don't notice me being disrespectful. "Hey." She turns her head, with those eyes wide that she always has, like she's constantly surprised._

_"Yeah?" She blinks a couple times. How can a seventeen year old girl look so innocent in a world like this? I hope she doesn't get rea-_

_I shake off the thought._

_"Um... can you poke me or something when he's about to tell us the- well the, umm, the... you know... this year's rules? The change in the Games?"_

_She smiles at me, again. Mary is such a sweetheart. "Of course."_

_"Thanks." We both turn away just as a white-unformed man begins to glare at us. I am on my toes, literally. People probably think I'm about to fall over, what with having_ all my weight _shifted forward.__ I _really _need to know what is going on. In all my seventeen years, there has never been a Quarter Quell. I didn't even know what it was for the first _sixteen!_ I don't know what it will be like._

_I wring my hands._

_I look around and notice that the peacekeeper from before continues to glare at me. Uhm, _can I help you?_ I purse my lips and look away. Doing anything that might give him reason to- start- something would be a very bad idea. Especially today._

_I try not to be so negative all the time, but it's kind of hard when you live in society where people enjoy watching children murdering each other. Frikking crazies._

_I hum a couple bars from a song that popped into my head the other day but I didn't get a chance to write it down, so I'm just hoping my memory won't fail me. I think this is one of my better pieces._

_I shuffle my feet on the cobblestones of the square. Very old fashioned, but lovely in my opinion._

_I yawn._

_I rise up on my toes over and over__.  
_

_And then I feel Mary reach out, her fingers dancing over my own. Time to tune in again._

_"This year-"_

_President Snow pauses, obviously for dramatic effect._

_"-for the third Quarter Quell, our instructions for you-"_

_I'm actually concerned- no matter how much I want to deny it. I find Mary's hand again and grab on to it. Deep breaths, deep breaths. It's just your life at stake. Nothing to worry about. Caine looks over at me and nods. He probably meant it to be reassuring, but I don't quite understand the gesture. I grab his hand, too, and surprisingly he doesn't shake me off. Instead, he drops the tough-guy act and squeezes my hand back.  
_

_My heart flutters in my chest, though I'm not sure if it's because of all the suspense or because of Caine. Lately I've been feeling more comfortable than usual around him, but it might just be the side effects of that good dose of the Games we're about to get._

_Finally President Snow starts to hurry it up._

_"-are this: Each tribute will be chosen by those from the district before them."_

_I raise my eyebrows. __This is already a disadvantage for the poorer districts._

_"Which, of course, means that only one tribute will have to be chosen from the reaping ball this year: the male from District 1. This is to ensure the randomness of the draw, as it is every year." I weave my fingers through Mary's and Caine's. Caine quickly glances down at me and then back up to the screen when the President begins to speak again. "__This young man will then choose his district partner on his own and _on the spot_. He will have no time to think his choice over. Both__ district partners will then travel to District 2 to choose the male tribute representing them, and so on."_

_Mary takes a deep breath and with her free hand begins to play with a lock of her hair._

_"This means that each district's reaping will be spaced 3 days apart from the previous one for time for travel and mind-making. And, although both of the district tributes will travel, only the female tribute will attend the reaping and announce who has been chosen next. This will continue this way with each district until there are once again 24 tributes in the annual Hunger Games."_

_People have begun to whisper to each other among the crowd. Including Mary. She turns to me looking confused._

_"But... how will they know_ exactly _who they want? They aren't part of the community, so they don't know us all by name. They would only know what _type _of person, right? They would only have a general idea? If they were tall or short or strong or weak?"_

_I shrug, clueless, and turn to Caine._

_"Um... I don't know. I guess-"_

_He was interrupted by the man on the television screen. "During the train ride to the next community-" I hear scoffing, scattered throughout the crowd, at his choice of words, "-the tributes of each district will be given a list of all the males of the ages from twelve to eighteen with head shots and medical information beforehand to look over."_

_Caine looks across me, down at little Mary. "He totally took the words right out of my mouth- I was just about to say that, Mary." We both chuckle at him although I am incredulous as to how he could be so facetious at a time like this._

_Mary and I both look at each other and shrug, smirks still on our faces.  
_

"Men,"_ she whispers, shaking her head._

_The daunting black speakers surrounding us crackle one more time, effectively wiping off everyone's smiles:_

_"And one last thing: each tribute will only have a limited number of kills. Those from District 1 will only be able to kill once. Those from District 2 will only be allowed to kill twice. Those from 3, three times, and so on. Good luck to all and may the odds be ever in your favor.__"_

_Then, with a shrill static-y noise, the speakers cut out and the television turns black. Without the announcement being broadcasted, everything seems too quiet._

* * *

Now that the tributes get to pick and choose, the Careers will no doubt be the strongest, and, well, everyone else will probably be... less than strong.

But about the whole "you cannot choose your victim ahead of time" thing, I'm sure the majority of boys will. At least, that's what I would do, and I would take my sweet time doing it 'cause, baby, I'd want to win.

I wasn't looking where I was going and I trip over a piece of tar that has come up, now just another jagged rock on the road. I throw my hands out in front of me but still I scrape my knees and little pebbles are probably embedded into my palms now. I'll have to get some bandages somewhere along the way to the factory or else I'll have blood all over my dress.

I slowly stand up, not wanting to hurt myself any further, and as I brush off the dirt, my eyes water at the sudden pain.

A tear falls when I think of what will become of me if I get reaped with my low tolerance of discomfort.

Yeah, I'm pretty sure I'll die.


	2. Chapter 2

___The voice of our escort rings out over the crowd, echoing. She just announced our female tribute, and I feel bad for the poor girl whose name was just called. Whoever it is surely won't make it back. I look around the cluster of people around me sadly, for the one face, the single face that is filled with terror, for that girl who has dread written across every feature._

_For some odd reason, I cannot find her. I would have expected all the other girls to be looking at her, at least. But they aren't._

_Hastily I put my hand on the shoulder of somebody next to me._

_"Who is it?" I hiss._

_For a moment he doesn't answer and just shakes his head._

_I wait impatiently for his whispered response._

_"You."_

She jolts up from under her rough comforters, drenched in sweat. After dreaming of being reaped, there will be no way that she will get anymore sleep tonight. There is only one thing to do.

The girl shoves the sheets away from her as if they are poisonous snakes, and jogs quietly out of her room, down the steps of her house as not to wake her snoring mother, and into the street outside, rubbing her arms to keep warm. She can see her breath in the cold night air like the smoke that rises from the factories during the daytime, and runs all the way across town to the old abandoned studio.

* * *

Seventeen years old, Jane-Lynnette stands on the bumpy, uneven linoleum floor. The grayish color of it is spotted with speckles of black from the bottoms of shoes. It rubs off on the soles of her feet, and there are little pockets of air here and there that squeak and flatten when she steps on them. The little cracks where the linoleum is pieced together, each strip meeting another, are littered with bobby pins that threaten to stab her feet if she is not careful, yet they are never picked up. They are forgotten by the owner and unwanted by the hair. This is their home.

The building is not much warmer than the air outside, but at least it keeps the wind out. She pulls her sleeves down to her hands to keep her fingers- which are almost always cold, due to the bad circulation that runs in her family- warm from the running. She laughs, looking at the place.

Nearly everything is covered with a layer of dust and dirt. And of course, many a thing is falling apart.

She brushes off the muck from the cracked mirrors, and when she takes away her hand, there is a clear, clean smear across it, just big enough to see her eyes and the bridge of her nose. She smiles at herself and wipes off her palms on her pant legs, leaving a brownish trail down the front of her thighs. She holds a steady gaze with the mahogany-flecked golden eyes she sees. Jane-Lynnette has a smile that lights up a room; she is notorious for it. And though she can't see the corners of her mouth quirk up in the way that they tend to do when she smiles, her eyes crinkle and her cheeks peek up out of the grayish brown dustiness, round and plump like apples. Apple cheeks.

She smiles with her whole face.

She tucks a stray strand of her copper hair behind her ear. It may be just a flaw she beats herself up on, but to her, those ears are hideous. They are always rosy, sometimes even a bright, pronounced shade that causes her to come off as embarrassed. She always wears her hair down to hide her _already_ less-than-noticeable features, and arranges it to cascade over her shoulders so no one needs to suffer through regarding her unusually elfin ears.

_They make me look like a monkey_, she thinks sourly, tracing a finger over them. A brief period of time passes before she sighs and shakes her head, letting her hands drop.

Her mind wanders.

No one else in the district is awake, not one single soul. Just her. Although the sky outside is dark and empty, it welcomes her. Some people claim to be afraid of this kind of darkness, but in reality, they are only afraid of the unknown, afraid of the things they cannot see and cannot control. Unlike those people, Jane-Lynnette feels the least in control during the _daytime,_ when every single person can see you and judge you. At this time of night, Jane-Lynnette can keep her privacy. This, the time just after dusk when the sun has gone and the sky is blackening, is the time she feels most at peace. The time she can think. Her head is clear and there is nearly nothing running through her mind, and she can be free as the wind.

Jane-Lynnette frowns and begins absentmindedly picking at her already-ruined nail beds and biting her lips, leaving them red and chapped. It is a bad habit of hers that she is trying to break- it's not going very well so far.

She presses play on the big black stereo in the corner of the room and meanders around her sanctuary as she listens to the fingers of an unknown artist tapping out gentle sorrow-filled notes on the keys of a fancy piano somewhere in the world. It is the sound of breaking icicles, shattering glass, little bells, wind chimes. As the song begins, the grimace wipes off her face and is replaced by something more meaningful and soft. Then the musician, her voice clear and magnificent, begins to sing.

_Will you be okay? Will you be all right? I could stay here 'till morning. I could stay all night._

Jane-Lynnette sits down on the floor and stares up at the puckered ceiling with her head tilted back.

_I could tell you: 'The world? No, it ain't gonna end.' Tomorrow's a new day; you can start all over again, and you can wrap your arms around me anytime. You can wear me like a vest, I'll be your lifeline. __I'll keep you afloat in this wicked world. You can be at rest just knowing I'm here._

Jane-Lynnette begins to sing along with the woman on the track quietly, casually.

"Did the world deceive you? Has life been unkind? Do you feel out of place even in your own skin? Like every day is a battle and you're not sure if you can win?"

She rolls her head and gazes at the replica of herself in the glass. Jane-Lynnette blinks and squeezes her eyes shut, forcing herself to think of anything but the reaping that will occur in a few mere hours from now.

Only the Capitol citizens and the Career districts live well.

She skips school to work countless shifts at factories.

Her mother is a teacher by day and a dress maker at night.

She laughs cruelly. Whoever said "life isn't fair," well, they were right. She has no father to rely on, and she has never _had_ a father to rely on. It is probably a good thing, too. Less mouths to feed means less tesserae to need.

Everyone has it hard. Just thinking of those in District 10, 11, and District 12 brings a hollow feeling with it.

Jane-Lynnette begins to panic; despite all odds, she knows she would die in the bloodbath.

_What if I am reaped this year? _The thought runs through her mind annually. She would surely be killed off. Only her legs are strong, and what use is that? She could kick, but that would be no match against heavy swords that she cannot pick up, let alone wield. She is nothing against a gun. She cannot match a whip, an axe, a club, a bow and arrow. She would only have a chance with hand-to-hand combat- maybe.

She is nothing.

She will die.

Tears threaten to fall and she regains her posture, standing up and brushing herself off. She rubs her eyes and lightly slaps her cheeks, trying to come out of the melancholy rut she got herself in just now. Breathing in deeply through her nose and out through her mouth, Jane-Lynette's heartbeat eventually slows and the tears disappear.

The music keeps playing, and despite her efforts to drown it out along with her thoughts, the end of the song comes.

_But you can wrap my arms around you anytime. You can wear me like a vest, I'll be your lifeline. I can be your lifeline, I'll keep you afloat, I promise. I promise._

_Be strong, _she reminds herself. She stands up taller, squares off her shoulders, and lifts up her chin. _There. Better._ For a moment she just stares at herself through the streak on the mirror, the only part where she can see a reflection, and then makes her way to the door that smells of musk.

She takes in the smell of the place, the sight of the place, and remembers something she picked up one day four years ago, rummaging through old, broken-down homes:

A pair of what used to be gleaming, satiny pink toe shoes.

She remembers picking them up, holding them in her hands for the first time, feeling the silky texture of the fabric, and marveling at the hard, solid blocks at the toes. Her chubby cheeks flushed at the sight of them. She remembers asking herself what they were, what they were used for. "There's only one way to find out," she said optimistically as she slipped on the beautiful, mysterious shoes, adjusting the elastics holding her feet inside them. She gazed at the ribbons on each side of the odd, shiny, footwear and wondered if they were for decoration. Foot-streamers. She remembers walking around in them for the first time, and sheepishly realizing that they were not your average, every day shoes, and that the ribbons were most definitely not decorations... after tripping on them and nearly falling on her face... She crisscrossed the lustrous coral-colored strips over her ankles to get them out out the way, and she rather liked how it looked. Very elegant.

Jane-Lynnette was still puzzled as to the _performance_ of the slippers, though. _Maybe they're for self-defense_, she thought. She pictured someone being kicked with them. Little Jane-Lynnette soon came to the conclusion that they were too pretty for violence. She remembers how every step she took, she rose up every so slightly onto the solid, sleek tips of them, cut off so they're flat and even. She remembers thinking how fun it would be to be _completely _up on her toes, and trying it. Her feet fit in the shoes perfectly and the shoes balanced upon the floor perfectly, as if they were made to do it. (Later, she realizes they _were.)_ It was all perfect. She remembers the feeling of tenderness in the joints of her feet and how her ankles quivered slightly. She remembers the warm, unexpected pressure of her toes being squeezed together, making them almost numb. She remembers the satisfying feeling of being completely up on top of the box, how her joints seemed to click into place, perfectly.

They were her first and only pair of pointe shoes, her very first love.

She taught herself the enchantment of ballet, the pull of dance, and she is stronger.

But... strong enough to match a Career?

Not at all.

Now, as Jane-Lynnette prepares to leave the room, her eyes come to a rest on her now-old pointe shoes, hanging upon a hook between her trusty mirror and the splintering door. They are well-used and will always be beautiful in her eyes.

Those slippers will always be her wonders wrapped in satin.

Once Jane-Lynnette opens the door, the gusts of wind that the meager walls had protected her from before hit her full force and chilled her to the bones. She hops from one foot to the other and whines, _why does everything need to be so freaking_ cold?

She begins to make her way back home when she suddenly turns right instead of left on the lonely road and starts to jog the other way. Slowly, she picks up the pace until her feet pound against the ground in a steady rhythm that she seems to have adopted lately. Running used to be something she despised, so, so much. Because it would strain her breathing and hurt her sides and burn her calves. She would always hate the gym teachers who made her do laps and especially those who forced her to do suicides- they are definitely named for a reason.

But then as she grew older, Jane-Lynnette wanted to push herself, to grow stronger.

Self-improvement.

Character building.

That's how she views running now. Only rainbows after rain, right?

So she runs the streets. Her breathing is heavy, her chest is heaving, but she still runs until her legs feel like nothing; they passed feeling like jelly a long time ago.

The sun has begun to come up on the district, she can see it in the east, so she cuts back through the lawns and back roads, and finally stops in front of her house once again. She leans her hands on her knees and drops her head, panting.

She notices it has gotten warmer, though, and smiles as she crawls back to her bed to get a couple minutes of undisturbed, dreamless sleep.

"See you in a few," she whispers to no one in particular before she falls into oblivion.

* * *

I wake up groggily, rubbing my eyes to get the sleep out of them. I roll over in bed and throw the covers over my head, trying to get a little more rest, and mumble something about hating mornings and not being a morning person. I burrow under the sheets and sigh. Today is a big day. My mind just won't let me sleep again. Today is a big day.

It has been about two weeks since that stupid frikking announcement. I grumble and roll around looking for the perfect snuggle-position. Today is a big, big, big day.

This is the day of the reaping.

My eyes snap open.

"Crap!"

I throw the covers off me and try to get untangled from them, stumbling with them wrapped around me feet and ankles. Once I'm free, I run over to the bathroom and rip open the shower curtain. Twisting the knobs to "HOT," I jump out of the way so I don't get drenched before I want to, and strip faster than I probably have _ever. _I jump back in, close the curtain back up so the bathroom doesn't flood, lather up, rinse down, and speed-sing random words just for the fun of it. Quickly, I brush my teeth, spit, twist the knobs _past _"COLD" to turn the water off, throw open the curtain, grab a towel, grab my clothes off the floor, and run back to my room.

_Whew. _My shoulders slump a little bit. And I straighten up quickly as I am reminded of the day.

As fast as I can, I dry off, rub the towel into my hair, flip it a couple of times to get the excess water out_, _stand back up_, _lunge towards my closet_, _wrestle open the sliding door to it that always seems to stick whenever I'm in a hurry_, _yank out a grey dress_,_ disentangle it from the hanger which I then throw off somewhere to the side_,_ shimmy it down over my head_,_ smooth out the fabric so it lays flat over my stomach, tug at the hem so I don't look like the complete mess I feel like, fall onto my hands and knees looking for my hairbrush in the dump I call my room, spot it, grab it, stand up, attack the knots in my hair that magically appear there, and flip it a couple more times to get any leftover water out.

Then I take a deep breath, checking myself in the mirror.

I put my hands on my hips and smile at myself. The dress is really a cheap little thing, nothing fancy. It's plain grey with a white braided rope belt at the waist. Simple. (Actually, it's the fanciest thing in my closet, but compared to those monstrosities that the tributes wear that blind you and take your breath away, it's nothing much. I wish I could plaster a grimace on my face and people would still like me- granted, it would just be because of how "fierce" I look, but I would take it any day... just not the whole "tribute" part. That would suck.)

Taking one last deep breath, I dash back into my sped-up pace for preparing for the day.

If I'm late to the reaping- well, I don't actually know what will happen, but it can't be good._  
_

I slide my feet into the only comfortable shoes I own and dash down the steps of my house, out the door, and down the street. I make a run for it, jumping over cracks in the ground and avoiding any possible tripping hazards. My hair, along with the cotton of the dress, blows out behind me as I pump my legs in time with my arms and the wind on my face stings and I can feel the blood rushing to my cheeks, turning them pink. The second the balls of my feet touch the ground, I push off again and my heels never touch the ground once. My heart pounds in my chest and a grin spreads across my face. A laugh escapes my lips. I can't help it. I love to run.

I round a bend and see the center of the district, filled with people lining up and checking in, all in their finest clothes. Thank God I'm not late.

At least... not _too _late. I don't have to cram into a nearby street, at least. That's even more claustrophobic.

My calves are _killing_ me right now. Why did I have to run this morning?

I lean down, resting my hands on my knees to catch my breath, and once again scan the crowd for Caine and Mary to see them laughing with each other at the back of the line. She stands up on her tiptoes and stretches her arm up, ruffling his hair. He wrinkles his nose and ducks away from her; He doesn't like people messing with his hair. And she knows it. I give a light chuckle under my breath as I jog towards them, waving to get their attention.

"Well, would you look who decided to grace us with her presence: None other than Sleeping Beauty, herself! Did your Prince Charming come and kiss you good morning?" Caine puckers his lips in front of my face and I shoo him away, laughing.

"No." I try to make it sound sarcastic. "That's Snow White. You got your fairy tales mixed up, moron. But I'll take a kiss from Prince _Phillip _any day." I stick my chin up in the air _trying _to make a point. "These lips are only for Phillips."

"Oh." He assumes a low voice as if to say _'__duh.' _"Excuse me."

"Yeah, that's right, you better be sorry!" I bring my fists up in front of my face as if I'm a boxer and start jumping from one foot to the other.

"Whatever, _twinkle-toes._" Caine rolls his eyes and turns toward Mary. I stand up straight again and point a finger at him, telling him to _'__watch it.'_

"Hey. I take offense to that name." I ditch the serious stance and start laughing. "No, but really." I put on a straight face again and stand up tall. "Study up, there'll be a quiz."

I keep the charade for a moment longer.

I try not to laugh, but a snort escapes me and that's all it takes. Caine lets out a loud bark and I can't help but snicker, putting a hand on his shoulder. All very lady-like, of course.

I feel something prod my side.

"Jalyn!" Mary hisses at me. Quickly, I correct my posture and make my face blank, recognizing anxiety in her voice.

"What?" I whisper. She nods her head to the left of us.

Sure enough, there is something wrong: A Peacekeeper. Staring- excuse me, glowering- right at us. I shift my eyes away soon and try to be discreet.

"Oh."

For the rest of the wait in line, we are quiet and, forgive the pun, _in line. _Once we are checked off by the Peacekeepers at the front, we are ushered inside the roped-off area with the rest of our family and friends. I keep my head up and don't kill anyone's hand with a death-grip like last time but, truth be told, I stumble over my feet just a bit. Like before, bodies press in on us from all sides, but this time it is less chaotic and more subdued. (It is surprising, though, considering that District 8 has the largest population of all of the twelve Districts.)

Looking to the stage, I see a set of chairs lined up as always. Behind the podium, our escort- Eve Wilde, looking literally wild with her animal print tattooed body- sits with her legs crossed daintily and her back straight. Our mentors, Cecelia and Woof, are there next to Eve. Cecelia is about thirty, has a middle-eastern look about her, and seems to be quite a mother-figure, while Woof is in his mid-70's and seems quite oblivious to what goes on around him. On his behalf, though, he does give off a grandfatherly vibe- sweet and oddly charming. I think I like our mentors.

Our mayor is standing up by the mic. He is most likely in his late sixties, with puffy gray hair and a salt-and-pepper-but-mostly-salt beard. But the two enormous, polished-looking glass orbs are gone. Instead there is a little girl sitting down in one of the chaises, her back arched due to her slouching, her feet turned in. The girl has slumped so far down in the seat that she is only halfway on it and I can't but but feel immediate pity for the poor girl. I cannot see _her_ eyes but she is small and very skinny- almost dangerously so, if you ask me. And I've seen hunger. Her arms are crossed over her chest and her short, brown hair falls in front of her face, blocking my view of any more of her. I would say she looks shy, almost nervous.

Emphasis on_ "almost."_

The little girl looks back up at the crowd as if addressing all of us and she smirks at someone too far away for me to see. Just then her whole body language seems very contradictory- shy versus sly. I wonder if it is part of her strategy. And then it dawns on me: That insecure looking girl knows which one of us will be sentenced to death. She has picked out a boy to kill. My breath catches in my throat for a second. And then I take a deep breath and try not to think about anything.

I tune out most of the speeches like before, along with our yearly reminders that "the Dark Days must never be repeated," "we are totally at their mercy," and of course the video of the ruins of our thirteenth district. I don't listen to the listing of our previous victors, either- we have had twelve in the past seventy-four years, and only two of them are currently breathing, hearts beating. By now these two people- our mentors- have made their way up to the podium and are taking turns speaking into the microphone but I tune those out, too; I just keep my eyes trained on the child upon the stage, waiting for her to stand up, urging her to move. To _make _her move.

Then, the mayor introduces Eve Wilde and a smooth alto voice cut into my thoughts.

"Happy Hunger Games. Now is the time one very lucky boy will be chosen to participate in this festivity by..." Eve's sultry feline voice doesn't portray any excitement or joy, like some other escorts do- for example, Effie Trinket, with her happy-go-lucky attitude. Instead, Eve always comes off as mysterious, dark, clever. And as she coolly introduces District 7's female tribute, everyone's eyes shift expectantly towards the child in the chair. She smiles, her little smirk dripping with sarcasm, and stands up. Nonchalantly the little girl brushes any dirt off of her skirt that may have coalesced there- _I_ don't see any- and slowly walks across the stage towards the podium where Eve stands, her nose up. I have a sudden urge to rush up to her and correct her posture, and I could laugh at my own ballerina-pet-peeves. Of course I don't.

Her footsteps are loud as the soles of her shoes click against the stone floor and it takes forever for her to reach her destination. The tension in the square is heavy and thick, and we all can feel it.

I hold my breath.

The girl-with-the-name-I-did-not-catch steps up to Eve, who hands over the microphone, and frowns at us all as Eve smoothly returns to her seat, treating it like a cathedra. The tribute's expression is not as if she is better than us, as I expected, but it is empathetic. Of course, she must know how it feels to be reaped. She was, herself, and is about to reap someone now. If I was in her place, I wouldn't want to sentence someone to death, either.

But it is a must.

She opens her mouth to speak, and instead of giving, yet again, a speech, all she does is say the name. Her voice is clear and steady, and so are her eyes. (Which happen to be brown. Like chocolate.) Her lips move, but I don't hear anything.

I look around to see if anyone else mysteriously went deaf, and then my head snaps toward Caine. _Caine, Caine, Caine. _What if he was picked? I suddenly feel like screaming, like punching someone, like ripping everything I can get my hands on to shreds. _Who did she pick?_ Then the sound reaches me like what a teacher once told me used to happen at a baseball game. I remember her saying that when someone hit a ball, the _crack _of it hitting the bat would be delayed in reaching you because it takes time for sound to move. Maybe it is like that. Maybe everything just seems in slow motion now. Maybe I'm just hallucinating.

But she had uttered two words, and they were not "Caine Marin."

Those two words were "Theodore MacHarlen."

Oddly enough, I cannot match the name to the face until he steps up to the stage, and I realize Theodore is his full name; we never hear it. Theo is just what he goes by. I am nervous, seeing him saunter as if he was expecting to be reaped, because this year the amount of tesserae you take doesn't matter. Your health, your strength, your age does- so he _couldn't_ have known.

And it is also why I find it so odd that District 7 picked _him. _Theo is a well-built boy- adult, now. He is eighteen years old, and tall. Actually, he is quite attractive. Fair skin. Cropped brown hair. Big, deep, dark blue eyes, like they're full of secrets- I bet they are; He's just that kind of person. He promptly runs up the stairs. The girl- I still don't know her name- has sat back down in her chair, next to Eve, and motions for him to go to the mic.

He gives a terse nod and stands planted on the podium, eyes sweeping over the girls. Every once in a while his eyes rest on one in particular and my heartbeat quickens. We shouldn't have to do this. This is cruel, this is so cruel. Theo frowns and continues searching for his partner-to-be. I see him staring at a girl named Beth. She looks terrified, wide eyes like a deer in headlights, mouth slightly open, breathing sped up. She begins twisting the bracelet she wears on her wrist distractedly and whimpers. He looks away from her and she heaves a sigh but does not stop playing with the bracelet. He looks from girl to girl and then he begins to focus on my side of the crowd. All I want to do is shrink down and blend into the crowd, and not stand out, not stand out. I glance at Mary. Though she is standing tall, her eyes give her away. She is just as scared as Beth, if not more. I hope mine don't give me away.

Theo's eyes get closer and closer to me, but ever so excruciatingly slowly. Finally, his eyes rest on me and I have to dig my nails into my palms to keep from breaking eye contact, and just as he did with Beth, he moves onto the next girl... and the next girl... and the next girl: Mary. She blinks and looks away from the eighteen-year-old, like I was so tempted to do. He seems to spend an eternity looking at her and I can't help but feel so incredibly disappointed in myself because I know that if Mary was reaped, I wouldn't volunteer for her. I would cry for days over it and would feel so guilty, but I wouldn't want to die for her. Wanting to save yourself... It's an instinct. Sure she is my best friend, but... wouldn't you do the same thing?

My chest tightens.

And Theo's eyes again move on.

I relax, my shoulders turning inward. Mary looks at me with a slight smile on her face, also relieved. Caine looks at us, too, but it is too soon for hugs and slightly-hysteric laughs, because Theo seems to make up his mind then. He adjusts the microphone to his height, clears his throat, and speaks loudly in his deep, bass voice of his.

He very clearly said "Jalyn Abel."

For a second I don't register what's happening. It is like in school when the teacher calls out names for roll-call and it takes a second to realize she called _me _and not some other Jane-Lynnette Abel. It takes me a second to realize that Theo didn't call Mary or Beth or some other girl, but then I do, and the guilt of being a bad friend washes away and is replaced with an even greater self-pity. Because now I know I am going to die.

I am going to die.

And suddenly I am surrounded by eyes that are searching my own, scouring my face for some kind of emotion. I don't feel like crying, like they might think I would. I don't feel like screaming, or punching someone, or ripping anything to shreds. I just feel like disappearing, becoming invisible. Because all the heads in the District have turned my way and all the bodies in the Capitol are seeing me through screens of countless televisions and the feeling of all those people watching me is just too great to deal with. And the surprise is too great to cry, too great to break down. All I can do is numbly walk to Theo, to the stage, not seeing anything, not hearing anything.

It is intangible.

It must be a mistake. He wouldn't want me.

Not me, not me.

My feet move without me telling them to and I am onstage shaking Theo's hand that must be twice the size of mine. I can hear the buzz of voices and then everything is a blur and before I know it I see red and am in a room in the Justice Building in the center of town, being suffocated by a crying Mary and a stony-faced Caine. He pries Mary off of me, her hands like vices around my arms, and I can't help but vaguely wonder how she became so strong. People dressed in white come in and bark at the two to leave before Caine encases me in a bear hug and quickly yells something before the Peacekeeper drags them out and slams the door. The white and the red contrasted so greatly that in my faze they seemed like Heaven and Hades, good and bad, and the Peacekeepers seem angelic and this room seems evil and all I want to do is to get out, to get out of this Hell. The room is spinning and my orientation is screwed up. The floor is the ceiling and the ceiling is the floor. Gravity doesn't seem to exist anymore and I feel like I am floating. Everything is hazy and I can't see straight, all I see is the red velvet upholstery, the red carpet, the red drapes. Red, red, red.

My last thought before I black out is:

I am alone.

* * *

******The song I used is "Lifeline" by Katie Trotta.**


	3. Chapter 3

I wake up to see the floor flying towards me, and I let out some type of yell that makes me glad no one else is around to hear it, which sounds like a mix between "nya" and "eyagh." I land hard, and think of how fun rolling out of bed can be. Especially when the carpet decides to high-five your face. That just makes my day.

I rub my nose, feeling for any damaged cartilage and climb up off the ground. As I brush myself off, I notice I'm no longer in my stolen grey dress, but in a soft, silk, skimpy red nightgown. My first reaction is to blush at the clothing, and that I do. The blood runs up to my face and it is too hot, and yet again I am glad that no one else is here with me. I look away until my normal skin color returns to me cheeks. My second reaction is to take a closer look, so I pull at the fabric and examine it. I let the hem fall back to my thighs and look around the room.

Everything is red, just like the room in the Justice Building, but the materials, patterns, and styles do not match, and I briefly wonder who it was that picked the furnishings for it.

The bed overflows with an insane variety of throw pillows. Some are furry, some are fluffy, some are tasseled. There are tiny and massive ones. There is even a metallic one. The only similarity is that they are all red, and every so few of them are buttoned. Underneath the mountain of decoration, the bed itself cascades with crimson blankets, sheets, and coverlets. At the edge of it is an overly-cushioned divan that looks like the stuffing will burst from it at the seams.

The wall, too, is peculiar. "Wall" isn't exactly the word for it though... it is completely transparent. A wall of glass.

At least, I _think _it's glass. I go up to touch it and instantly the view out of it changes and all I see is a bright, magnificent blue lake that just by _seeing _it, I can tell it must be the perfect temperature. Emerald green mountains loom in the background, spotted with patches of lush, rotund trees. The golden sunlight seems warm and bright and welcoming.

Tropical, I think.

It is also most definitely no where near District 8, let alone District 9, where I am heading now on the train. I hear telltale sound and feel of a train- the noise that metal on metal always seems to make, the slight rocking, jostling motion, the cliche _chugga-chugga._

On this train I, for the first time, am leaving my home.

I touch the glass wall again and the landscape changes to a forest. Once more and it becomes a night sky, filled with tiny, bright stars. I run my hand over the smooth, cold glass, and it goes into a frenzy, flashing the different backgrounds at me rapidly. I laugh and step back. It stays on the view of the lake that I first saw.

Turning away from the mirage on the glass, I continue with my inspection of the room. There is a short, fat dresser with a single rose sitting in a vase on top of it, and a low-standing glass table that seems too polished and too smooth to be real. It piques my interest, that table does.

Maybe it's just my fondness for pretty things, but I walk over to it and run my fingertips across its surface, like I did with the wall; it feels just the same. I smile.

Then, as if there is electricity running through the inside of the table, it lights up and gives off a warm glow. One by one, small golden circles appear on the top of it and I realize that the table is not just an ordinary table but a screen, too, like the wall. Once all of the circles have shown up, golden words appear on the inside of them in a neat, pretty scrawl.

"Aid..." I click it, curious as to what the "Aid" option might be for. I wait a couple seconds but nothing happens, so I move on to "Apps." Once I tap the screen, all the golden rings are wiped off, almost like a wind came along and blew them away, and are replaced with little square picture with captions below them. One is a picture of a cake and is captioned "Bakery." Another has a picture of a gun and says "Hunting." Yet another square has a picture of shampoo and is titled "Salon." Not knowing exactly what all these selections are yet, I click on the first one I saw- "Bakery."

The screen again changes and has opened up on a virtual bakery with avatars and everything. After a few minutes of playing around with it I find that it is a game- I can bake cakes and mess them up and anger customers and everything! After surfing around, I come to the conclusion that "app" is just a Capitolian synonym for "entertainment."

It takes me a moment of trying to figure how to get back to the home screen, but finally I do and I keep examining the little golden rings.

"Backgrounds..." That must be what I saw on the wall earlier. So there's two ways to control it. Oh, those lazy Capitol citizens.

I read on.

"Books-" I skip down the list until I see one that catches my eye. "Lighting..." I reach to select that circle, but then as my fingers hover over it I shake my head and bring my hand back. I don't want any neon strobe lights that may give me migraine headaches, so I continue reading.

"Movies, Music..."

I stop and tap that one with the tip of my finger. My mother used to sing me lullabies when I was a little girl. She was the one who made me love singing. She taught me to love beautiful things.

My mind snaps back to the present as the circles are swept away and replaced with a long list of what must be the names of songs, also written in beautiful golden print. I randomly press one and a light, sweet voice washes over me. She does not sound like my mother, but it is equally beautiful. I listen to the artist's words and a couple lines in particular stay with me as the song ends: _At the end of all your lines, who will love you? Who will fight? Who will fall far behind? Come on, skinny love._

The artist tells a story of love and pain and I find myself wondering what "skinny love" is, and what happened with their relationship. Her words, filled with emotion, make me want to rip out my heart and weep and dance and yell and break things. After the song ends, I am left sitting on the floor of my room with my mouth open, tears in my eyes. I do nothing for a moment, overwhelmed with the passion of the artist and how it seeps through the song. For a while I just listen to my breath and feel my heart beat in my chest, and then with a fresh burst of energy-filled curiosity, I bring myself back to the home screen and scroll back up until I find the search bar. I tap it and up pops the alphabet, a keypad. I tap out:

D-I-C-T-I-O-N-A-R-Y.

_Search._

I end up with two gold rings: "Dictionary," and "Urban Dictionary." I don't quite know the difference between the two, though, so I decide I'll try both and see if their definitions are any different.

The Dictionary tells me:

_The word you've entered isn't in the dictionary. Click on a spelling suggestion below or try again using the search bar above._

_1. Sucking louse_

I go back and try the _urban_ dictionary. That one is much more useful:

_1. When two people love each other but are too afraid to admit it, although they show their love anyways._

_2. Love that does not have weight and does not have a chance; Love that is malnourished and not properly fleshed out; Love that is too thin to last._

Reading that brings the tears back to my eyes and slowly, I stand up. Why do I have to be such a hopeless romantic? Trying to distract myself from the grim story that artist told through her music, I walk over to the door of the room and take the bathrobe off of it's hook on the back, wrapping it around me like a blanket. It, too, is red- what is up with the obsession with that color?- and very fluffy.

Meandering out of the bedroom, I stare at the floor and feel the plush carpet between my toes. I pad around, walking in a straight line down the long, never-ending hall. There are doors, doors, and more doors. I can't imagine what they're all used for. As I walk on, I stare at my bare feet until something metal comes into view and blocks my way. As I look up it slides out of the way. An _automatic _door? Fancy. I stare at it as I walk into another car that must be the sitting room. Immediately I notice that this room greatly differs from my own. Each room must have a unique theme. There are a couple of grand, patterned arm chairs and a love-seat circled around yet another glass table, all facing a massive television screen built into the wall.

As I lick my lips I lean against the back of the couch and look out the big window on the back wall, opposite the TV. I watch- well... I don't really know what. The train is going so fast all I see is blurry colors. Greens and blues and browns.

Loudly, a man clears his throat and I jump up, gasping. Theo stands in the doorway I just came through and I am surprised that the sound of the door sliding out of his way didn't tip me off. He raises an eyebrow and I have to remind myself how to work my jaw- I hadn't been expecting company, and I probably look hideous as I always do after I wake up. Theo, on the other hand, looks great as usual. My face lights up with embarrassment again, but this time even worse than it did before. This time I am not alone. I, too, clear my throat.

"Hi." It sounded breathy and weak, so I try again and lick my lips before taking a deep breath. "Hi!" I manage a smile.

He doesn't smile back.

I frown, and I don't know why, but that boy makes me feel so... short-tempered. He didn't even doing anything and he's already gotten on my nerves.

Theo smirks and chuckles coldly, probably reading me like a book- Wrinkled forehead? Oh, that means I'm confused. One eyebrow arched? Yup, I'm angry. Two eyebrows? You guessed it, surprised. Pursed lips? I have nothing to say. Wrinkled nose? Disgusted, of course.

I guess Theo feels the same way towards me as I do towards him, based off of his harsh attitude.

I clench my jaw in an attempt to keep myself from saying something I'll regret, while he remains nonchalantly smiling at me. Mocking me. I hate him.

It has only been a day and I hate him.

I want to punch him. I want to kick him. I want to elbow him. I want to knee him. I want to push him down a flight of stairs. I want to see him cry. I want to wipe that grin right off his face.

_I want him to feel pain._

I just know that I can't be the one to inflict it. I don't have it in me.

But now I think, in the arena, I won't be sad to see him go. And now I know if someone wants him killed, they can be my guest and go ahead, because no matter that he's my district partner, I won't stop them.

I look down at my hands and pick at my nails, furrowing my brow as Theo sprawls across the couch, behind me.

Feeling awkward, like he'd be staring at me or doing something behind my back, I turn around and scurry over to the sitting area curl up in one of the armchairs, getting comfortable, too.

It's angled so I can see his face.

"Theo, why are you rude to me?" I say it bluntly, looking down at my lap because I cannot look him in the eyes and ask. When I get no response and I look back up at him I find that he is completely ignoring me. I _know_ he hears me. "Okay... Um, I guess that was a little insensitive of me- You could have your reasons, I'm okay with that. So... I'm sorry?" Again, I receive no signal whatsoever. I kind of want to yell at him, acknowledge me, jerk! But I don't. Trying to get him to speak with me I try another tactic. If he doesn't want to talk about personal things, maybe he'll talk about the Games- if not less touchy, it is at least a less _personal_ subject.

"Maybe we could figure out who to reap from District 9?" The sentence feels sticky and sour on my tongue but I need to say it. It will have to happen and we will need to be prepared for it.

He grunts and examines his nails. "Whatever. We could do that."

There is bubbling in the pit of my stomach and I feel success at getting him to speak, like I'm winning some type of contest.

"Cool. Um... I know we have the information about the boys from 9 somewhere... I just don't know where. So, um, I'm going to just..." I trail off at the end of my sentence. I guess I should go find Eve. She would have them. I uncross my legs and stand up. So much for getting comfortable. "I'll go find our escort."

"There's no need." Eve's wise voice comes from the doorway. I turn around, surprised that I hadn't heard the door slide open _again_, and the animal-printed woman saunters over to us with a large stack of papers in her arms. "Here. I was just going to drop them off for you two and-coincidentally- here you are talking about them."

"Eve? What is the name of the District 7 female tribute? I never caught her name."

Our escort stares at me in a sort of all-knowing way that makes my skin crawl.

"Gwenyvere Nyron."

"Also... um. I don't remember anything after the Justice Building. What happened?"

Eve continues to stare at me in that almost emotionless way, and Theo breaks into the conversation. "You passed out and were hauled onto the train, slung over some guy's shoulder." He pauses and then starts laughing.

"What...?"

He smirks at me like he did before and it pisses me off. "I was just thinking that the recap will be interesting this year."

I snarl at him. _"Shut up." _

"Bitch, don't tell me shut up!" Theo jumps from his spot on the couch and lunges for me. I kick my legs out and push him away, my feet on his chest. When he tries to grab my ankles and get them off of him, I begin to kick and get precariously close to his face, slapping his hands away in the process. He grunts and I'm shrieking, a built in alarm system in all females. He finally manages to grab a hold of my feet and twists, trying to break my ankles. Trying to make up for his actions, I turn out my legs from my hips like I'm taught to in ballet- needing to straighten my knees first- and the natural turn-out of my legs matches the unnatural turn-out of my feet. The pain is gone, but if Theo sees I balanced out the pain, he may try to jerk my feet further around, and then he would really cause some damage.

The possibility of that scares me- not because I would be at a disadvantage once the Games start, already injured and all, but because I would never be able to dance again- and I yank my ankles from his grasp. I lash out again, my toenail just skimming his cheek, and thinking that that will be as close to hurting him as I will ever get, I scoot back to the far end of the chair and quickly slide over the arm of it. I stumble out and around him, running away.

"Get back here!"

_"No, no, no, no, no! _What kind of a numbskull do you think I am?"

Indirectly calling Theo stupid was a bad move, as it just makes him angrier, and as he tackles me to the ground, stomach-down, both of us finally realize how quiet Eve has been this whole time.

She stands, seeming to tower above us in her high heels, and looks down her nose at us, a tangle of limbs, disapprovingly. "Get up." She hisses. Eve's alto voice has dropped to a bass on account of her chagrined vexation with her tributes. She surefootedly strides over to us, behind and slightly under the glass table now, and drops the stack of papers next to our heads with a _thwack_. Eve crouches down in front of us in one fluid motion.

"Study them well."

The way she says it, tilting her head, almost makes it a threat and as she swiftly makes her exit, Theo and I are left on the floor with the carpet in our faces, staring at the documents.

* * *

I study the forms from my perch on the couch, sifting through them, while Theo speaks from the floor across from me- he was too lazy to get up from earlier- where he has dubbed the carpet his territory. "So... what kind of kid do we want to kill?"

I choke. Spluttering, I yell, "What?"

He shrugs. "I figure we better pick someone weak. It would make it easier on us and everyone else, too. Easy prey, you know?"

I place the glass of iced-tea I had been nursing down on the table, not caring that Eve- who joined us after a while- is demanding I use a coaster or it will sweat and leave a puddle, and stand up abruptly, knocking the papers across the table and onto the floor. "Is that why you picked me?"

Theo doesn't answer. I can't read his face, so I can only assume his answer would have been a yes. My jaw is set and tears cloud my vision for the third time today, but I decide it is not worth it to piss him off again and slump back into the couch.

"Fine. But strength isn't the only determining factor, you know. So is intelligence."

Theo snorts at my comment. "A skinny nerd, how perfect."

I ignore his sarcasm and we continue sorting the males from District 9 in silence.

* * *

After endless hours of failures, I put my head in my hands and groan. Initially, we split the room in half; one for those who are crippled, and one for those who aren't. Then the halves are split again by age. Then the age groups are divided by strength, and finally, the strength groups are sectioned off by appearance. It takes up the whole floor, table, chairs, even the couch.

There must be at least fifty piles, and it is too overwhelming. We haven't even decided what kind of guy we want to reap- something that would help us very much.

"Can we stop? Please?" We all want to pick a different kind of guy. Theo wants him to be crippled but I think that is too cruel and heartless. Being from the Capitol, Eve thinks he aught to be strong and handsome so he can put up a fight and put on a show. Theo wants a younger kid, and I honestly don't have a mind on the subject as long as they are fourteen or older. Younger than that is just too despicable. Cecelia, who joined us in the middle of our let's-kill-a-kid party argues against every boy we suggest- I just think it's her maternal attitude towards the subject kicking in. I mean, what mother wants to see _any_ kid get killed? And as for Woof, Cecelia informed us that he is napping- classic old man.

So after seven hours of this bickering, everyone practically screams their assent and goes to do something else. The adults go to get a drink, and Theo goes off to his own room.

"Agh, I just want to get this over with! I don't want to ruin anyone's family, and I do _not_ want to get someone killed!"

Eve and Cecelia are both looking at me over the rims of their wine glasses- Eve expressionlessly, and Cecelia familiarly.

The mentor hands her glass to the escort, who instead of just holding it, slyly pours its contents into her own glass. Cecelia encases me in an unexpected hug. My arms just kind of dangle awkwardly at my sides when she says, "I know, sweetie, but it's the rules. You have to." She rubs my back a couple of times and lets me go. "Go relax. We have time."

I sigh. "Okay."

And I'm gone.

* * *

My dirtied clothes fall to the tiled floor of the also-red-themed bathroom, covering myself up even though I know nobody is here to see me except the mirror and myself. I shiver as the cool air hits my bare skin and quickly step into the shower. To my surprise, it is much bigger than I first thought. I close the sliding glass doors and instantly they light up with a blue glow like the table did, and a grid of little, square, touch-screen buttons appear. There are hundreds of them, but unlike the bedroom table, none are labeled.

Well, won't this be an adventure.

I shiver again and randomly press one at eye's level on the far left panel of glass.

Here goes nothing.

I brace myself, but absolutely nothing happens... that I notice.

Then suddenly I feel my calves tingling and prickling as if I were walking through a field of tall grass. It is uncomfortable and I have an urge to check myself for ticks until I look down to see hot steam seeping up from vents in the floor. I shriek at the mysterious gas and scurry up next to the wall, trying to get away from it. It continues to creep up, though, and soon my nostrils are bombarded by the smell of lemongrass and thyme. Normally, it would be a soothing smell, but there is too much of it and it is too strong. Trying to get rid of it, I hurriedly press another on the middle panel, whichever my fingers find first. Water comes out from the wall, in which I assume shower heads are built into, and it is pointedly directed at my crotch. I yelp and grimace. It is abrupt and the flow is strong, not to mention the ice-coldness of it. It feels like hundreds of needles pricking me over and over again. Talk about a thorough wash.

I begin pressing random buttons to turn it _all_ off.

One makes the lights turn different colors, one begins to play music, one shoots different colored soap at my body. At one point, shampoo squirts into my right eye and whatever the Capitol puts in _their _shampoo makes it hurt like a mothertrucker. Another button makes the water attack me in rhythm with the beat of the heavy-metal screamo music that's currently making my eardrums bleed.

The steam begins to make its way out from the small vents in the walls, too.

Water rains down from above, but as if it is coming from the ceiling itself. There are no actual shower heads, sticking out from the walls or anything; it is all built in.

One button makes the water hit my feet, slowly making its way up to my head and then back down as if it were scanning me like a bar-code. I expect a beeping noise to come after it, and then to be moved on like I were on a conveyer belt. (Frozen peas. _Bleep._ Bread. _Bleep._ Eggs. _Bleep._ Jalyn. _Bleep._ Milk. _Bleep.)_

I almost laugh and then I remember my abusive relationship with the shower.

If it's even possible, I feel dirtier now than I did before I stepped in the shower. I am covered in suds of unusual... unusual _things:_ sugar scrubs, Shea butter creams, odorous body washes and perfumes. The water frequently switches from arctic cold to boiling hot in seconds- I can't help but wonder if someone flushed a toilet somewhere else on the train- and that is where I draw the line. As I race out of the shower, not even bothering to figure out how to turn the thing off, I can smell sickly sweet odors radiating off of my body and feel about to throw up the little food that is in my stomach.

And then it all becomes so much worse than overpowering perfumes, as I take one look at myself and screech. So, so much worse. I run up to the foggy mirror and wipe away the humidity with my palm frantically. I hope that I just imagined it, it is not real, it can't be real. Sure enough, when the mirror is clear enough to see a good portion of my body, my eyes go as wide as ever and I let something out of my mouth like a whimper or a gasp or an incoherent mumbling.

Gibberish.

I stare at myself in disbelief until I can find my voice.

"No, no, no, no, _no!" _I touch my face and my hair and my arms and my stomach to make sure it is just a dream.

It is not.

_"No!"_

I'm sure anyone would have the same reaction as me if they stepped out of an incredibly harassing shower only to find that it died their skin and all of their hair a bright, fiery, orange.

I feel like crying.

I could cry.

I really could.

And as I reach out to touch the mirror, I wake up in my bed screaming.

Once I catch my breath, I look at my skin, I clutch my hair for a better view of it, and I thank God that none, meaning no part, of my body is a garish yellow. It was only just a nightmare. I'm fully clothed and intact in my bed, not naked and abused in the bathroom.

Relief washes over me as I fall back against the ridiculously red comforter.

_Girl, you need to get with it._

When next I see her, I will need to have some serious, _detailed_ girl-on-girl chats with my escort about how to work that dang shower.


	4. Chapter 4

It's a game of hide-and-go-seek, but whenever someone is found, they die.

It is all about finding; You either find kids to kill or places to hide.

It is dark.

Everything is gray and black and it disorients me.

I find myself walking into walls and tripping over my own two feet.

I do not want to die.

I need to find a place I'll be safe.

Hastily, I half-run half-walk around the ominous area, sure to be quiet. I make my feet fall lightly on the ground so no one can hear me coming or going. I brace myself when I turn a corner.

It's better if I don't see anyone. It means they're somewhere else.

Every once in a while I do see someone, though. A girl or a boy hiding under something, in something, on top of something. I always put a finger to my lips to tell them to be quiet. And to tell them I won't give them away. And to tell them not to give me away, either.

Quickly, I run into the nearest crevice and flatten myself into it, sucking everything in and holding my breath so my breathing won't alert anyone of my whereabouts.

I want to be out of sight as soon as possible.

It gives me a little more comfort.

I bite my lip and try to calm myself down.

I hear people's footsteps getting closer and closer.

I can hear them talking.

"No one's over here."

More footsteps.

"Try there."

More footsteps. Some rustling. A yell. The sound of metal hitting bone. A thump.

Then silence.

I do not want to think about what just happened but the image of a body collapsed onto the ground in a big heap of flesh and bone, a dented skull, blood dripping onto the floor, is just too vivid in my mind.

Their footsteps recede and I think I am safe, but I hold my breath for an extra second just to make sure.

Then, I let it all out in one sigh and let my body go back to its normal shape, not all spread out as if I were trying to become the wall, disappear into it. My breathing evens out.

But as suddenly as safety came, safety leaves: a shadowed, distinctly evil-looking face jumps in front of me and I can see beneath the pointy, black hood that it is a boy, with a mace in hand. I shriek and back up but there is no where to go- I am trapped.

And he is hunting me.

My heart jumps to my throat and my stomach is in spasm, clenching and unclenching, clenching and unclenching.

At the same time, my mind races about, figuring out the only options I have: Beg for mercy, kill him, or run around him.

My breath comes shallow and quick. I cannot get enough air; He's going to swing that weapon towards me any second.

And I make my decision:

'Run around him' sounds nice.

I squeeze up against the wall once more, leaning against it, and launch myself off of it with a grunt. I throw my hands out in front of me- half in defense and half in panic- and claw at his face, yelling my lungs out. He calls out and stumbles backward, just enough for me to kick him in the gut and try to rip the weapon away from him before I flee. He starts to fall but his iron-grip on the mace along with my attempted thieving drags him forward again and our bodies collide.

_I mentally curse myself._

I try to push him away but only end up pulling him closer, so close that if either of us moved three inches, we might as well be embracing. But no embraces are a matter of life and death. I almost laugh at that, but the masked boy is only confused for a second until he's alert again.

I don't have any time- for laughing or for _anything_.

I drop everything and kick him once more in the gut to make him back off even a little bit and I run full speed in the opposite direction from where he came.

All I can do is hope I am significantly faster than him, when I hear yet another voice. Once I hear it I go into default survival mode and speed up my pace until I am more than sprinting. I don't listen to the person, but picked out a few words like "wake" and "rest."

The second time they speak, I don't tone it out, though. I want to know if I should push myself even more, despite the fact that my calves will most likely be burning tomorrow anyhow.

"Come on, get up. You can sleep more later."

What? I _am_ awake. I am _running_ for God's sake!

I slow down instead, confused- _what is going on?_ I feel someone shaking my shoulder, but it doesn't feel like it's _my shoulder_. It doesn't feel like a part of my body that is shaking, but at the same time, it _does. _Like there are two of me.

Or like this is an out-of-body experience.

It is the weirdest sensation, and I wish it would stop. I just want to get away from that boy so I can stay intact!

I tell myself, _focus on escaping, focus on escaping, focus on escapi-_

Then I jolt forward and am no longer in the cold, black place, but in my room on the train sitting up in my bed. I am hit head-on with a massive feeling of confusion until I realize that it was only a dream, that _this_ is real life.

It's safe and sound.

I'm panting and I put my head in my hands. That was one God-awful dream. Especially now that I am a tribute. I take a minute and then open my eyes.

Cecelia is sitting on the edge of the red bed. I swallow before I speak.

"Um. Yeah?" I lick my lips.

She smiles. "We need to work out what your angle will be and how you will manage the interview with Caesar Flickerman. It's a big deal, so I let you get a little more sleep than I usually would. This could make or break your chance to get sponsors." She pauses. "Why don't you get dressed and then meet me in the dining room? It's that car." She points to the car on the opposite side of the train as the sitting room. I realize I never explored farther than the common room since I talked with Theo.

I nod.

"Okay."

I don't move until Cecelia leaves the room and the door clicks shut. Once I can no longer hear her feet hit the carpet of the train, I walk towards the dresser on the other side of the room and start shuffling through the drawers. I throw on a pair of black athletic pants and a blue T-shirt with the word "TRIBUTE" printed on it in big white letters. It's cheesy, but that's the Capitol for you.

And I purposely steer clear of the shower.

I grab a pair of fuzzy socks and leg warmers, tie my hair up in a bun, and head out- people really just don't know how comfortable dancewear can be.

I pay more attention to the hallway today than I did yesterday; there are a bunch of paintings hung up on the walls at intervals. Some are landscapes, some are previous tributes, and some are abstract. I think I like those the abstract paintings the best. That way, I can imagine what it is, figure it out for myself, instead of someone telling me.

My room is not completely in the center of the car, though, so the walk to this car that Cecelia pointed out to me is much longer than the walk to the one with the TV from before. The door slides out of the way for me like the other did, too.

It is a dining room.

Eve, Cecelia, Woof, and Theo all sit at the long wooden table, waiting for me to eat. There are numerous platters of food of all kinds, and pitchers of colorful liquids, none of which I can name. As I take my seat unfortunately next to Theo, Woof- on my other side- grins a wrinkly grin and grabs a plate for me, piling it with everything it will hold.

"Here." He offers it to me with a shaking hand and I smile gratefully and place it in front of me. I glance up at everyone, wondering whether there is some kind of protocol for eating with these people who have much respect from the Capitol, to find everyone else doing the same. Thankfully, Woof breaks the awkward silence with a mischievous grin, trying to make light of our situation.

"Well, why don't we all dig in? We won't all eat like this forever." Immediately after he says it, the utensils clatter noisily, and as Theo and I feast on our first Capitol meal, Theo snorts.

"I will."

Cecelia looks sharply at Woof as if to say, "we've got a tough one this year," but I don't think he catches her meaning; he just smiles warmly back and raises his wine glass to her.

Throughout the course of the meal, Woof comments on how "tasty these potatoes are this time around," or how the stew could use "a couple dashes more of salt." He always makes eye contact when he can, and I think I quite like him. Every once in a while, usually times when I'm overwhelmed by the flavor of something, he'll reach over and pat my shoulder. Woof is such a kindly old man.

Once everyone is done, Eve up and I lean back in the wooden chair.

"For the first half of the day you two will work with Cecelia and I on how to present yourselves, and then you will both work jointly with Woof. Then we will break for lunch and go down to Car F-"

"Wait, they have names? The cars?" I stand up and walk towards the door where I assume a plaque or a sign of some kind would be. I stare at Eve, waiting for her answer.

She stares evenly back at me.

"Yes. As I was saying... There, you two will be separated again and will meet your stylist and your prep team, who will fix you up for the cameras tonight that will surely be at the station in District 9. We will stay a night at the Justice Building and then you will become presentable for the reaping, after which we will go straight to the Capitol." As Eve says "the Capitol," her velvety voice sounds like a caress, though it does not go any higher than her normal heavy voice.

All this time, I thought Eve was that one exception to those Capitol-bred escorts we receive. Her perplexing attitude, with dark undertones here and there, is so unlike the other escorts that I figured she was unlike them in _every_ aspect.

Obviously, with her fierce pride of her home, I was wrong.

* * *

Theo leaves with Eve to go down to the sitting room for their session, and Woof- without a tribute to mentor- goes off to get "a dang pipe to smoke."

Cecelia and I spend our time, still in the dining room, working on what my angle will be. After all, my first public showing will be tomorrow and it wouldn't make any sense not know it by then.

"Umm... well, for starters, I guess I should point out that I'm a lousy actress, so... if there's anything that would require acting on my part- that wouldn't work out very well." I laugh at myself. "I think it would be stupid to act tough, because I'm really not. I mean, I would just get myself killed. People would have the whole wrong idea of me. That's bad right?" Cecelia doesn't answer at first.

"Well, if you act innocent enough the Careers will underestimate you, and let someone else 'take care' of you. If you escape the bloodbath- which should be your _top priority_- you will need to keep a low profile and hopefully they will forget about you, or better yet, maybe even think you've died, if they don't pay close attention to the announcements at the end of each day. I think you would only be able to do one or the other, sweet _or_ edgy- it's too contradictory."

So the "tough girl" option is out. No way could I pull that off, anyways.

"Okay... But I need to be memorable. I can't be just another sweet little girl, that won't help me. I need sponsors, I need to live!" I can even hear the desperation seep through my voice, myself. "I can't- _I cannot die._ I have a family- I have friends I promised I would be back to! I have a life, I want to live, I want to be alive, and even if I've never really felt needed before or important or like I've made a difference before in my life, maybe I can now. And I _don't_ think that I can win the Games! I'm weak, I know that; so I need sponsors! How do I get sponsors if _I am not memorable?"_

My breathing is fast.

"First of all, you need to understand something: You can't go out there being naive. If you expect everybody to hate you right at the start of it all, if you expect to die out there, you will. You need to fight for it. You need to be responsible for your own life and take some action. You can't depend on people in the arena. If you think you're too weak, do something about it, and soon. Open your eyes." Her eyes soften the smallest bit. "You need to be confident. You can still play the sugary-sweet part, but say something the Capitol citizens will remember."

I purse my lips and I can feel my face contort. My mouth is dry and it is hard for me to speak, even though it is only a whisper.

"But... that's what I'm saying. See... I'm not very good with words, a lot of the time I say stuff I don't even mean to say. I- I don't know how to say anything memorable."

"Then you better _do_ something memorable."

Cecelia puts hand on my knee and squeezes, reassuringly. "I know you'll figure something out; you're a smart girl, I can tell."

We spend the rest of the our time together not talking about the Games at all, but of our lives at home. I find out that Cecelia has two children, a little boy and girl- He's seven, she's three. I tell her about my mother and how when I was younger I would tell her what colors to use and she would weave all my dresses, with me watching by her side. I tell her about Mary and how she has a habit of chewing her nails. I tell her about Caine and how he can always, no matter what the situation, make your day better just by smiling. I tell her about dance and how much it means to me, how much it has changed my life for the better. I tell her about how I used to tie scarves around my wrists and make them float around as I dance, like I was a fairy princess- even though I would deny it if anyone ever found out. (I was "too old" for that make-believe.)

Then, as I am crying about never putting on my pointe shoes again, as I knew would happen at some time, Cecelia puts scoots her chair in closer to the table and puts a hand on top of mine. As she rubs her thumb over my knuckles in a very maternal way, the door whooshes open and Eve saunters in with Theo. I quickly wipe my eyes and push my chair away from the table, standing up.

"Time to go?" My voice wavers but doesn't break, thank whatever God might be up there, looking down on me now.

Eve nods and pushes my district partner forward with a clawed hand- who, I note, is scowling- and she traipses back out to her own car where we will be meeting. I have to jog to keep up with her long-legged pace and finally we're back at the living room. I flop facedown onto the couch, whose heavenly cushioning I have grown more than accustomed to, while she settles down in a love-seat perpendicular to the couch. She reaches into a giant black, furry, tasseled bag sitting atop the glass table and pulls out something bright blue and dangerous-looking.

She tosses them my way and I catch them haphazardly out of the air, juggling them a couple times so that they don't fall and break, and then I stare disbelievingly at what I hold in my hands.

High, high, _high_ heels.

I groan. She doesn't actually expect me to conquer these, does she? _Wish me luck, ankles._

I'm screwed.

She smiles playfully at me.

"Well? Put them on," She purrs and gives a little swoosh of her hand, telling me to get going._  
_

I sigh and strap my feet into the death traps, with a feeling that she's going to thoroughly enjoy watching me repeatedly fall flat on my face.

* * *

After Eve is done re-teaching me how to walk, she gives me a lesson on how to sit (with my legs crossed to one side, and my hands in my lap, palms up), and then how to speak (formally, politely, and not forgetting my articulation). She gives me a crash course on which utensils to use for which dish at dinner, how to shake someone's hand and give first impressions. Once she has finished carefully telling me about how important body language is she excuses me, our time up.

"Perhaps Woof will be in his room, you aught to go meet with him now," she says as she stretches, now up from her perch on the arm of the chair.

"Uh, okay..."

She looks at me with her catlike eyes. "83."

"Ah. Thank you!" I flee the car, dancing into the one that contains our quarters, and scour it for room 83. I find that, as the room numbers get closer to the 80's and further from the 90's, the doors are spaced further and further apart and realize that it probably means the low 80's are bigger apartments than the high ones. Once I find the door that has the golden plaque that reads the correct number, I knock.

After a moment I can hear the unlocking of bolts and then the door swings open to reveal an angered-looking Theo. My eyes widen.

"Oh. Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know this was- I thought this was-"

He runs a hand through his dark hair and grumbles.

"It's not mine."

He opens the door wider to let me in. As I set foot inside the apartment, I immediately notice its grandeur. There are three different rooms- a bathroom, bedroom, and sitting room- and each is about the size of my whole suite (which actually isn't all that big now that I think about it). It is ocean-themed, filled with different, complementary shades of blues and greens, and I notice that it, too has a mirage-wall.

In the sitting room, Woof is sitting down in a leather armchair. Once he sees me he smiles and his eyes crinkle.

"Oh come in, come in, you two. Don't worry, Jalyn, Theo also just arrived." He pats the matching leather couch next to him and offers us both tea and peppermints. Theo and I both decline the tea, but I pop a mint into my mouth and suck on it while Woof speaks.

For the first few minutes of our time together, he gives us tips for when we are actually in the arena. So far, the list I've put together in my mind consists of:

1) getting away from the cornucopia as fast as possible,

2) getting as far from the Careers as soon as I can,

3) finding water before nightfall and,

4) staying hidden.

Throughout this, Theo feels the need to interrupt with comments like "I won't be a bloodbath," or "I won't need to run from them if I _am_ one." At these, Woof just smile and nods, continuing with his advice.

He tells us to pay attention to the edible plants and bugs station in training.

"When I was a tribute I could never master that station. Dang bugs all look the same." He chuckles and Theo rolls his eyes. I laugh politely. More seriously he says, "You never know when we'll be able to send food or not."

Our session with Woof is filled with tips and stories about why the tip he just gave is so important, and by the end of our time I am laughing like I'm with Caine and Theo is glowering like he's in the presence of a madman.

Woof groans as he stands up from his chair. "These joints are going!"

I've noticed that Woof never seems to be without a smile, big or small, and that is one thing I really like about him.

"We get to go stuff our faces and then you young people can go get yourselves cleaned up!" Conspiratorially, he looks at Theo and not so quietly whispers, "watch out boy, it hurts a goddamn lot."

The expression on his face as a response is priceless.


	5. Chapter 5

"Ninety eight."

I huff.

"Ninety nine."

A breath.

"One hundred."

I roll onto my stomach, pushing my torso away from the floor to stretch the abs I just exercised I groan a little as I switch my weight from one hand to the other, trying to push myself further away for a better stretch, before I roll back over and begin again.

"One, two, three, four..."

After three sets of a hundred sit-ups my stomach aches and so does my lower back which I had unconsciously been working, too, cheating on the drill. Immediately after I'm done, I lay down onto my back with my legs out straight in front of me and then begin my leg-lifts. After only about fifteen of them I begin to use my quads instead of my hamstrings to push my legs up and those to begin to throb, but I continue on. I grab handfuls of the rug out to my sides to keep myself from cheating, from taking any of the weight away from my legs and squeeze my eyes shut.

I hear a knock on my door but don't answer it, although it opens anyway when whoever it is doesn't hear a response.

"Jalyn." I can't see who it is but I recognize the bass voice.

"What do you want, Theo?" I barely get it out due to my breathlessness and my lingering aggravation at his disrespecting my privacy.

"Er..." I can almost hear his awkwardness at catching me like this through his voice, but he soon gets over it. His voice returns to his usual cold tone when he says, "When you're done trying to get a flat stomach and lose all your baby fat, we need to talk about the tribute from 9."

I almost yell at him to "get the hell out of my room and shut your stupid mouth," but I refrain from it and instead grunt out, "we can talk now."

He strolls in and plops down onto my bed. As I notice he brought the forms of all the boys from 9, I flip over and start doing push-ups, self-conscious of my nonexistent upper body muscles that are straining right now. Thankfully Theo doesn't comment, and I have to give him some brownie points for that.

"I still think we should reap someone weak."

"Theo..." I grunt and finish my rep, sitting up, and cross my legs. "Yeah, I agree that it would be easier for everyone if he were to be weak, but then I would have that on my conscience for the rest of my life, no matter if it is big or small. It's like a double-whammy; Sentencing him to death _and_ giving him a disadvantage. But if we reap a strong boy, then although we are still condemning him, he'll be on a level playing field- _or_, even a higher playing field than some- and we won't feel any more guilt about it." I stare at him for a second before continuing. "Plus, if we do reap a weak boy then that anxiety we'll feel for being heartless monsters will distract us from the Games and make _us_ more likely to killed. Without that extra anxiety, we both can be on our game- no pun intended."

He stretches out, making himself comfortable, and doesn't appear to intend on responding to me.

"Do you get where I'm coming from?"

There's a beat.

"Yeah... I guess. But that's stupid-"

"Excuse me?" I lean back and raise my eyebrows at him. His voice becomes gruff because my interruption.

"I mean, you don't need to be such a goody-two-shoes about it. If you're going to kill people, you might as well start right away; There's no point in waiting." His indifference ticks me off.

"No! You're an idiot, that not what I'm saying- I'm saying that I _cannot handle guilt_ well, and I will definitely feel guilt if we reap someone weak. I already explained that."

"Don't call me an idiot." He warns. "You don't _have to_ feel guilt."

"Ah! Theo!" I throw my hands up in the air, exasperated. "Yes, I do! I am human! Humans feel guilt when they do something wrong, and you know what, Theo? _Killing is wrong. _I'm not going to kill anyone unless that is_ the _only way I will survive."

"Well then _you're_ going to die instead!" He raises his voice so I raise mine to match his.

"How do you know?"

"Because you'll just be torturing yourself! Just get it over with and do it!"

"I am not you, Theo! I cannot blindly murder whoever I want to whenever I want to!" Somehow, somewhere in the argument we both stood up and are now staring down at each other, hands in fists. The next time Theo speaks it is quieter.

"Then you shouldn't be in the Games."

"No one should be in the games." My jaw is clenched and the tension still runs high in the room. I glare at him a second longer and then I walk over to the wall. I touch its cold glassy surface and it changes from the scene by the lake to just a normal window. I watch as trees zoom by.

After minutes, I've calmed down. Sighing, I ask, "Theo?" I don't get a response and keep my eyes glued to our surroundings outside the train, though now I'm not really seeing anything. "Do you enjoy the Hunger Games?" I brace myself for his response but it doesn't come. I turn around and cross my arms.

"Fine. Refuse to answer my personal questions if you must, but you do know that you will have to give Flickerman some answers, right?"

His blue eyes burn into my own brown ones and I don't look away. I sigh.

"Theo, please." I don't want to beg, especially to him, but- "Please? Just do this one little thing for me and then you can kill as many people as you want. I won't get in your way, I won't even try to persuade you out of it! I swear. Please?" He has sat back down on the edge of my bed again and now appears slightly uncomfortable under my gaze, though he squares his shoulders and tries to look macho.

"Mmm..."

"Theo." My voice pleads with him.

"Fine."

"Yes! Thank you, thank you!" I rush over to him and give him a quick squeeze of a hug- not wanting to chance any more with the brute- and rifle through the papers. "I saw one before that looked okay..." I mumble. "Hold on, I'll find him. One sec." I throw some papers around until I find the boy and hold up his forms. "Found him!"

I stare at the picture of the boy with the flaming red hair, the dirt-brown eyes, the pointed nose, the square jaw.

Theo grabs the papers out of my hands and takes a look at them, to make sure he's made the right decision.

"Don't worry, he's not stronger than you," I say dryly. "You can relax now."

Theo looks between me and the boy and stiffly nods his head.

"He's perfect."

* * *

"Um... hi." I cover my chest up with my arms. Now that my prep team is done stripping me of every single hair on my body besides my eyebrow, eyelashes, and the hair on my head, I feel bare but also oddly like I do not need to hide myself- or at least the bottom half of myself- anymore. I wrap my arms tighter around my chest, though. Looking down at the tiled floor, embarrassed, my prep team leaves with the smock I was wearing and my stylist comes in. My prep team, filled with plump women with various tattoos, piercings, and odd hairstyles, told me I would be meeting her- Edenthaw, they said her name is.

I hear her footsteps and cover myself up a little bit more. I'm not quite comfortable with my body, myself, and I am most definitely not comfortable with showing my body to a stranger.

Unfortunately, I have to.

I hear her shoes stop clicking against the tiles.

"Hello, Jane-Lynnette. How are you doing today?"

At the distinctly male voice, my head snaps up in shock and I feel the need to cross my legs, let a hand trail down- anything to keep him from seeing me- reemerge, but I suppress it. My mouth parts a ways in shock; I didn't know my stylist would be male- _male__! _My cheeks flame and my eyes widen. The voice belongs to a tall, lean man with short, bright orange hair and kohl lining his eyes. I notice little swirls of black ink here and there on his unusually ivory skin. So he, too has tattoos. They climb his arms and snake around his shoulders, in little eddies wherever there is a hollow- between his collarbones, at knuckles, behind his ears, even at his temples. He's incredibly attractive and I suddenly become fully aware of the little layer of fat covering my lower abs, the pointy ends of my ears, my un-clipped fingernails. I snap my eyes back onto the ground. His, _his_ name is Edenthaw. Now that I think about it, not one woman on my prep team said that my stylist would be female. Damn those gender neutral Capitolian names...

"I'm okay." I answer. Luckily, my voice didn't crack and my eyes didn't water. That sometimes happens when I'm embarrassed or on the spot- my face gets all hot, my eyes water, I blink a lot and sometimes even have to end up squeezing my eyes shut altogether- it used to happen a lot when I needed to speak in front of the class at school. I clear my throat and, taking a big leap for me, make eye contact with the stunning man, stark naked. "I go by Jalyn."

"And I go by Eden. It is a pleasure to meet you." He approaches further until we're no more than two feet apart and holds a hand out for me to shake.

I stare at it in disbelief.

Then I stare at him in disbelief.

_I don't think so. Nope. That is _not_ happening._

I laugh nervously. "Uh..."

"Jalyn-" he makes a point of using my nickname "-you need to accept yourself just as much as I need to see you."

I glower at the floor again. Why is this happening? Why me,_ why me?_

"Erm... um, well... I don't think I can do that." As a second thought I say, "Eden."

There's a beat.

"Okay."

Okay? That was easier than I expected. I was bracing myself for- well, something else.

"O-Okay."

"Then tell me about yourself."

I ignore his question for a second and stare wistfully at the door through which my prep team left with that gown. No matter how small I thought it might have been before, it would be a life saver now.

"Can I have my clothing back first?" No answer. I slowly tear my eyes away and back to my stylist. He doesn't seem all that much older than me- ten years at the most. Eden is now ignoring my question. Great. "Sure, yeah, cool. Um, me. Okay. Well... uh, I'm sixteen." I offer.

He chuckles. "I know."

"Oh. Um. I know how to weave."

He just smiles warmly at me. "I know that, too. I mean, tell me about _you_." Despite the extra stress he put on the word, I don't understand his meaning any better. He must see this in my face because he goes on to explain, "what do you do? What do you like to do?"

"Oh. I dance. I run. I sing." He nods. "Er... yeah. That's it."

"And are you nervous for the Games?" My stomach drops and my eyes begin to water. What kind of a question is that- when he must know very well that I stand no chance against any one of those other tribute, let alone the Careers. If my stylist was trying to smack down any confidence I had, he sure did a great job of it.

"Yeah."

I try to swallow but my throat won't let me, and I keep my eyes averted so he can't read me anymore.

I rock on my heels a couple of times, even more uncomfortable than I thought was possible.

I lick my lips and clear my throat.

Eden is the one to break the long period of silence.

"Well, think of it all as a performance." I wait for him to continue, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. "You would not go on stage if you did not have a costume or any makeup, would you?"

I have a feeling he wants my answer to be "no," but I can't quite tell; I've never been on a stage, I've never worn a costume, and I have never worn stage makeup. I decide to leave my answer to his imagination, hoping he'll take it however he wants to: so I grunt.

For a second Eden just stares at me with a little smile on his face like he knows me and answers the question for me.

"No, you would not. With those elements, you draw in your audience, make your performance more alive and _tangible_ to them. Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

I huff. "Not really. I don't 'perform.' I don't know what you're talking about. I just dance, that's it." I cross my arms tighter around myself and then more quietly I say, "sorry."

Eden takes a few more steps forward and puts a tattooed hand on my shoulder, and then sensing my incomfort with that physical contact, what with me naked, he removes it.

Staring straight into my eyes he says, "Jalyn." His voice is hard. _"You get sponsors because of those."_

Eden lets that sink in.

"Do you want sponsors?"

I pout but nod my head; I really hate how he assumes this position of superiority over me. Nevertheless, he is _right_.

"Good. But you cannot have any of those things_ unless you let me see you." _

My hands twitch, like I no longer have control over them, and I fight with myself on whether or not to let them drop to my sides.

"It may be cocky to say, but it is the hard, cold truth: You get sponsors because of me. And I need to do my job."

I really don't want to, but- "Fine."

And they fall.

* * *

The new me steps out onto the platform, where I am met by hundreds of blinding, flashing lights.

I almost lose my balance in the shoes Eden has put me in, teetering atop them, and I grab Theo's arm for support. The dress I'm in does me no good comfort-wise, either, being tight as a corset. It is green- though, from the cleavage and up there is only thin ivory lace, covering all the skin up to my collarbone. The actual green part of the dress ends itself in a sweetheart neckline.

My guess is that Eden is trying to make me look mature without revealing too much of my body. I think about this as I hold onto Theo's arm tighter, hoping I won't trip in these black, strappy heels.

Realizing what I did a second too late, I look to Theo, a little bit scared of what his expression might be because of the sudden physical contact, but he looks surprisingly okay with it. I'm led to wonder whether it is only because of the cameras that he is miraculously level-headed. With that as my theory, I decide to see what the extent of his justification will be and slip my arm through his. I smile familiarly up at him for the cameras, but there's a smirk hidden beneath it.

I hope he sees it.

Theo's arm twitches but he smiles just as warmly back at me. It really is too bad I don't have a phobia of kindness, or else he could torture me in the same way. I guess he'll just have to suck it up.

Smirking, I wave and nod at the cameras, even blowing a kiss once as a joke. Questions are shouted at the two of us and I can't make many of them out, but occasionally Theo does, and if he doesn't mind the question he'll answer it simply with a yes or a no.

For example:

"Is this your last year to be eligible for the Games?"

"Yes."

"Are you two together?"

No comment.

"Do you plan on sacrificing yourself in order for this girl, here, to live?"

"No."

After he says this into the microphone, the man looks a little baffled. I debate whether or not I should cover for Theo by planting a little kiss on his cheek, but then I imagine feeling the stubble that his prep team refused to shave off- they said it was "sexy," he told me- and I have the urge to gag. Instead of trying to make us seem friendly by doing that, I just pat his arm, which is still entwined with mine, and tell the reporter secretively, "I understand. It's okay with me that he wants to win."

Which is such a lie.

And for extra measure I smile at Theo again, snuggling closer into him, only to see that his face has turned pink with anger. I almost break down in that moment and a snort escapes me. Pink isn't as menacing as red, after all. As I turn my head away from the reporter to keep him from seeing my leering face and catching it on tape, he tries fishing for more information but we move on.

After all the hype last year about the star-crossed lovers from District 12, I think the reporters are all hoping to get another juicy story like that. They were all a little heartbroken when both tributes from 12 died after getting so close to winning the Games. I just hope they don't think that we are one of those stories, because I will not play that part with Theo.

At all.

Ever.

And I doubt he would, either.

I sneak a glance behind us to see if our mentors or our escort caught that exchange. Eve is chattering away with one of the Capitol reporters, a woman with died-red skin and bejeweled eyelids, and Woof is- as per usual- off in his own world, with an arm protectively around Cecelia. Unfortunately, I find Cecelia staring right back at me, frowning. She shakes her head. _No_, her expression says. _Don't do go any farther. _So when another cameraman comes around asking us if we're in a relationship, I ignore his question.

"I'm terribly sorry, but we really need to go now," I say with yet another smile, and lead the two of us away from the platform, out to where our car waits for us to take us to the Justice Building of District 9. As soon as the cameras are gone, I pull my arm out of Theo's and laugh at him, stumbling across the brown lawn outside of the train station in my monster shoes.

"You are so going to pay for that," Theo mutters at me, and I slap his arm lightly. My pearl bracelet whispers at the motion, sliding against my wrist.

He glares at me.

Then, Cecelia motions us over to the curb where she and everyone else stands, waiting for us two. Once Theo and I join them, all of us pile into the limo and the car ride is silent- well, except for Cecelia commanding us not to speak to any gossip columnists unless it is absolutely necessary. When we arrive at the Justice Building we are all lead to our rooms where we'll be staying. We have to ascend a marble staircase to get there and I am acutely surprised that District 9 has one, considering that they, too, are one of the poorest Districts. On our way I stare at the artwork hung up on the walls, much like the ones on the train but of worse quality. They are all spaced at even intervals and a ways down the corridor, I see that there is no painting, but instead a mirror.

That is the first time I see my remade self.

I just quickly glimpse at the thing and am about to move on to the next piece, but my appearance stops me- I do a double-take.

My hair is straight as a pin.

My eyebrows are defined and arched.

My skin is completely even and I appear flushed.

My cheekbones look higher.

My lips' natural color is enhanced, too, and my eyes are artfully lined with a smooth whitish color around the corners; They look bigger and innocent.

Bright green eyeshadow has been blended with a soft white shadow and applied to my lids, to match my outfit. When I blink the eye makeup shimmers and I suck in a breath.

I look... stunning.

I hadn't believed Eden when he'd told me that green would look good on me, but now seeing the whole thing, I will definitely applaud him tomorrow when he comes to prepare me for the reaping.

I bring a hand up to touch my face when I notice that no one has waited up for me, or even seemed to care that I had stopped. Trying to run to catch up with the group, my shoes clack noisily against the tile floor and I wish I could shut them up.

Escorted to my room, I close the door behind me and I push off the massive heels with my toes. I breathe in the clean, smoke-free scent of District 9 as I amble around in my bare feet- that now know what freedom feels like- and peruse the place.

The furnishings are pretty much the same as the ones in our Justice Building back home, but they're of even less quality and are yellow. I don't particularly like the color yellow.


End file.
